The Death Trade

7

The five Sand Cruisers were painted in desert camouflage, each with a crew of five or six men, and a general-purpose machine gun mounted in the center. They had been driving in a convoy for three days, following a wearisome trail that seemed as old as time and probably was, their destination Timbuktu.

The lead vehicle paused as the column emerged in a flat valley, and Daniel Holley called a water stop. He stood up beside the driver of the front vehicle and focused his binoculars on the desolation.

He wore a Bedouin cloak of blue called a burnous, the hood hanging behind, and the dark blue turban of a Tuareg, the face veil hooked back. His only concession to modernity was a Glock seventeen-round pistol at his belt, whereas the weapon hanging from his shoulder was a Lee Enfield bolt-action, single-round .303 rifle, standard issue to the British Army in two world wars. The men in all five Sand Cruisers dressed in a similar way, varying only by their choice of weapons, and an air of general menace radiated from them.

There was a murmur from some of the men as they drank, but otherwise silence, and then two riders appeared, spaced well apart, on the rim of a vast sand dune some two hundred yards away. They sat on their horses, surveying the convoy, and a third rider appeared between them.

He held a flag braced against his right foot, the black flag of al-Qaeda. The murmuring stopped in the Sand Cruiser, and there was a total stillness now.

“There is one God and Osama is his Prophet.”

The words echoed high above, and Holley dropped his binoculars, slipped the Lee Enfield from his shoulder, and aimed briefly, a perfect snap shot that caused the flag holder to lift from the saddle, drop the flag, and roll over and over down the side of the dune. The other two horses reared, and one of the riders leaned down to pick up the flag and waved it over his head as they rode away.

There was a roar of approval from the men in the Sand Cruisers, and Holley responded to it. “That’ll give these Protectors of the Faith people something to think about. So let’s get moving.”

The engines of the five vehicles roared into life and the convoy moved forward again.

It had all started a few weeks before Dillon and Sara Gideon’s eventful visit to Paris. Daniel Holley was at the controls of his Falcon jet, landing at the Algiers airport one late evening, with darkness starting to creep in as he taxied to the private facility.

He cut the engines, aware of the ground staff waiting, but rather more interesting, the black Mercedes and the young man in a tropical suit who leaned against it, smoking a cigarette. His name was Caspar Selim, a major in Army Intelligence at thirty, on secondment to the Foreign Minister’s Office.

Holley went down the airstair door and the ground staff brushed past him to secure the aircraft and retrieve his luggage. He approached the major, smiling.

“Caspar, what a surprise. To what do I owe the honor? Are you here to arrest me or what?”

“The foreign minister’s golden boy? You’ve got to be kidding. He wants to see you, it’s urgent, and that’s all I know.”

“Where to, the Foreign Office?”

“No, he’s waiting now at your partner’s villa.”

“Interesting.” Holley joined him in the back and, as the Mercedes pulled away, said, “Give me a cigarette.”

“I thought you’d stopped.”

“So did I, and then I went to Somalia.” Holley accepted the offered light. “Thousands of Kenyan troops are massed to attack Kismayu, the only large port that al-Qaeda still controls.”

“Sometimes I think you have a death wish, my friend,” Caspar Selim observed.

“I know,” Holley said. “And one day it will be the end of me, but not this time. I scraped out of Kismayu by the skin of my teeth, but with plenty of information about the city’s defenses. The Kenyans were quite happy to get it.”

“They’ll love you in Nairobi,” Caspar said. “But then, I suppose that was the real purpose of the trip all along.”

“To improve my business credentials in that fair city?” Holley shrugged. “No harm in that, but I’d also like to think that the information will save lives when the Kenyans launch their attack. Do you know the Roman saying ‘Life is short, art long, experiment perilous’?”

“What the hell is that pearl of wisdom supposed to mean?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, Caspar. You went to the military academy at Sandhurst. Figure it out for yourself and give me another cigarette.”

They found the foreign minister in the huge sitting room of the villa of Holley’s partner, Hamid Malik. The minister’s chauffeur lurked discreetly at the back of the room, obviously with a gun in his pocket. Malik was uneasy in the great man’s presence, as they sipped fresh orange juice laced with champagne, and the relief on his face was palpable when Holley and Caspar Selim entered.

The foreign minister raised his voice, a smile on his face. “Here he is, the hero of the hour. I’ve had my opposite number on the line from Nairobi, Daniel. Our Kenyan friends are more than grateful to you.”

“Well, that’s nice to know.”

“The information you brought out of Kismayu will make all the difference when the Kenyan Army starts its invasion. We’ll drink to it.”

Malik was pouring, and Holley said, “Somehow it makes everything seem worthwhile.” He turned to Caspar, glass in hand. “Don’t you agree?”

Caspar mouthed bastard and then raised his glass. “A wonderful effort.”

“I agree,” the minister said. “But now to business. Algiers has been good to you, Daniel, I’m sure you would agree. Twenty-five years ago, you turned up from Ireland with a price on your head, to be trained as a soldier of the IRA at the camp at Shabwa, deep in the desert, kept solvent by the generosity of Colonel Gadhafi.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Daniel said.

“And now here you are, joint owner with Malik of one of the biggest shipping lines out of Algiers, a business founded on your ability to sell arms to every country in the Middle East.”

Malik, a businessman to the last, said, “I can assure you, Minister, that our books are completely in order.”

“So you perform miracles now?” The foreign minister laughed and turned back to Holley. “Granting you Algerian nationality was one thing, but then I made you a special envoy of my department. That diplomatic passport gets you waved through airports worldwide.”

“For which I am immensely grateful,” Holley told him.

“Yes, well, now it must be paid for. I have a task for which I believe you are uniquely fitted. Is it true that for some years you have sold arms to Tuareg tribes rebelling in the north of Mali?”

Holley didn’t hesitate. “On occasion, I did, but I’m not going to apologize. I thought they had a point.”

“I tend to agree, not that it matters. They are just the kind of recruits I have in mind for the task I am going to give you. Timbuktu has been invaded by rebels calling themselves Protectors of the Faith. But they operate under the black flag of al-Qaeda.”

“Just how bad is it?” Holley asked.

“Government troops have cleared off; also any police. Timbuktu has been a center of Islamic learning since the sixteenth century. Priceless books and documents, including some of the very rarest copies of the Koran, are there. The invaders are like mindless savages, destroying what they do not understand. They’ve even ordered locals to stop worshipping at the tombs of saints.”

“And those who refuse to obey are slaughtered, I presume?” Holley asked.

“So we understand. Many local people have managed to conceal the treasures in one way or another, but information is scant. It’s hopeless to expect help from the UN in these troubled times, but our President has placed this matter in my hands to find a solution. It’s one of the worst attacks on Islamic culture for centuries. We must do something.” There was a pause. Malik looked hunted at such a prospect, but Holley simply nodded. “So what you’re saying is you want me to act completely unofficially, recruit a band of Tuareg bandits, go down to Timbuktu, and save as many of the priceless artifacts as we can?”

The foreign minister nodded. “That sums it up. The Algerian government can’t be seen to be using the army or the air force in any way. It might give the wrong impression.”

“So I’d have a free hand to take care of it whatever way I want?”

“I’m not even offering to pay you, Daniel. I’m well aware you and Malik are multimillionaires anyway. Look upon it as a good deed in a naughty world.” The foreign minister stood up. “Your country will be immensely grateful.” He smiled. “Especially if you can achieve our aim with a minimum of publicity.”

“Of course, Excellency.” Holley shook hands. “Go with God.”

“And you, Daniel.” The minister turned and went, and Malik hurried after to see him out.

Holley poured himself a whiskey and stepped out onto the terrace to find a full moon, the vast harbor below uniquely beautiful. He stood there, thinking about Timbuktu, and Malik returned, immensely excited.

“Can you do it?”

“I think so. Recruiting the Tuaregs will be no problem at all. They put themselves out as mercenaries these days, and once they’ve taken the blood money, they’re yours. A matter of honor. There are plenty hanging round Algiers, some of the guys whom Colonel Gadhafi recruited. We’ve got several Sand Cruisers in the holding depot doing nothing. There’s no problem tooling them up with the right weaponry. Twenty-five to thirty good men should be enough. They can drive down through the Sahara. I’ll go with them.”

“So, no helicopter?”

“Terrible sandstorms this time of year. The Dakota will do just fine, and it has lots of room for the rare manuscripts and books we’ll be looking for. There’s an old airstrip at Fuad ten miles out of Timbuktu, left over from French Foreign Legion days. I’ll need another pilot, but Caspar Selim has his wings and he can’t say no. The foreign minister won’t hear of it.”

Malik shook his head. “All you see is another adventure, Daniel. You never change.”

“As the foreign minister said, Algeria has been good to me. It’s a chance to do something worthwhile in her name, but if al-Qaeda makes this a major campaign the French might have to intervene, and certainly Algerian Special Forces. Time will tell.”

A month later, unaware of any of this, Dillon and Sara Gideon found the weather in London just as rain-soaked as the city they’d left, Paris. Billy Salter, waiting for them under an umbrella beside his Alfa Romeo, greeted them cheerfully.

“Taxi, lady?”

“How nice,” Sara said as he opened the rear door for her. “Highfield Court, please.”

“You’ll have to make do with Holland Park,” he told her. “Ferguson wants to get straight down to business.”

“Sure, and doesn’t he always,” Dillon said. “How’s Harry?”

“Busy with the restaurant. There’ll be Roper and the general and we three, but what it’s all about, I’ve no idea.”

“And Daniel?” Sara asked. “Still no news?”

“A month now,” Billy said, “and not a word. But I wouldn’t worry. Anyone who’s been sentenced to life imprisonment in Moscow’s Lubyanka Prison and yet walks out in five years has got to have a bit of luck on his side. You must know Daniel Holley by now. He’s up to his neck in a lot of things we aren’t.”

“He’s right,” Dillon said. “The shipping line takes him all over the place, and his arms-dealing must be bigger than it’s ever been. It’s a sign of the times.”

“Come off it, Sean,” she said. “Somebody should have told him of a brilliant new invention, the mobile phone. If he’s too busy to call, I can only draw my own conclusions,” and she folded her arms and sat back in the corner, miserably angry.

Well, I must say you look better than I thought you would,” Ferguson told Sara when she and Dillon joined him and Roper in the computer room.

“It could have been worse,” she said. “But I’m sorry about the woman, Fatima.”

“You should have reported her confession straightaway, to me or Claude Duval, but I believe you were giving her a chance to get away. That was very wrong. Did I make a mistake in recruiting you?”

“That’s interesting. Declan Rashid told me that’s how you would see it.”

“You discussed it with him?”

“Of course. I did tell Claude what she had confessed to me, but he didn’t tell Declan and Khan that she was targeting me under direct orders from al-Qaeda.” Sara was perfectly calm. “Declan says I’m a wild card and that you won’t want to use me again.”

“I like the colonel,” Dillon cut in. “But if that were true, the general would have sacked me years ago.”

“And me, come to think of it,” Roper said. “By the way, and just for the record, as you seem to have got rather intimate with the colonel, what’s his attitude to al-Qaeda? Did you ask?”

“I didn’t need to. He told me that he didn’t buy the Osama message, but then wondered why I should believe him.”

“My goodness, you did get close,” Ferguson said.

“No cheap cracks, please. That was when I told him Fatima had confessed about her order to assassinate me. It was the first he’d heard about it, since Claude hadn’t mentioned the fact, and he wasn’t pleased.”

“No, he wouldn’t be, any more than he’ll be pleased at being posted back to Tehran for a while. It’s just been announced at the Iranian Embassy.”

Amazing the sudden sense of loss. Sara pulled herself together and said, “So what happens now? Am I returned to unit? If so, that’s fine. With my languages and experience, there’s still plenty for me to do in Afghanistan.”

“And a damn sight more here. To be frank, this relationship with Colonel Declan Rashid may be worth a great deal in the right circumstances,” Ferguson said.

Before she could reply, Dillon cut in, “I’ve said it before, but you have to be one of the most devious bastards of all time.”

“I’ll second that,” Roper said. “So having established that Sara is still a prime mover and shaker round here, can I put a question her way?”

“Of course.”

“What did you say to Husseini, Sara?”

“I asked what his attitude would be to an attempt by the SAS to snatch him and his mother and daughter. He said that the idea of them being out of Tehran and living the good life in Hampstead had a certain appeal, but he didn’t feel there was much hope of such a venture succeeding. So under the circumstances, he had no option but to accept the current situation.”

“Very frustrating,” Ferguson said. “I can see that. What else did he have to say?”

Which was when Sara started to lie. “Oh, he was terribly pleased to see me, wanted to know all about my grandfather. He has a genuine affection for him and follows his academic career online. He’s kept quiet about their relationship all those years ago.”

“And what did he think about you?”

“Fascinated by my military career, Afghanistan and so forth. I told him I worked for you, no reason not to, and I felt it was necessary to establish my good faith, if that’s the right way to put it.”

Ferguson nodded. “You’ve done well.”

Billy Salter, who had been sitting beside Dillon, taking it all in, said, “Considering what she and Dillon went through the other night here and then in Paris, I reckon she’s been bloody marvelous.”

“Yes, you could put it that way,” Ferguson said. “Well, let me think about it. In the meantime, there’s another matter which’ll interest you. Daniel Holley dropped out of sight just about a month ago. Roper said he could be in Algeria or in the depths of the Sahara, and he was closer than he knew. Timbuktu, a center of Islamic leaning for at least five hundred years, is being pillaged by barbarians in the name of al-Qaeda. Rare books, artifacts, manuscripts, an entire culture being destroyed.”

Sara said, “But what’s Daniel doing down there?”

“We have a short film, shot on the move and pretty rough, but it will give you the idea,” Ferguson said.

Roper put it on his largest screen and it was as if they were right there: crowds of people surging through alleyways, smoke, flames, men on horseback galloping around, trucks and the occasional jeep with general-purpose machine guns mounted, and then the Sand Cruisers charging in, Tuaregs standing behind their machine guns and firing.

There was footage of the Dakota at the old airfield at Fuad, trucks drawing up, delivering cargo to the plane. Caspar Selim, in khaki uniform, was supervising the loading. A Tuareg galloped up, dismounted to talk to him, then turned to look into the camera, and it was Daniel Holley.

“Oh my God,” Sara said.

“Yes, he does look rather dashing,” Ferguson said. “All that’s missing are Beau Geste, his two brothers, and the Foreign Legion at Fort Zinderneuf.”

Holley was suddenly closer to the camera, smiling and nodding, and then there was a loud explosion and the screen went dark.

Roper said, “Don’t get alarmed, that was nothing serious. We’ve talked to him several times since.”

Ferguson said to Sara, “He’s calling my office on Skype an hour and a half from now. You can take it first and have a chat. I’ll speak to him after.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

“Good. Now allow me to explain what Holley is doing running this affair. Then we’ll see what Maggie Hall has to offer for lunch.”

Holley talked to her from the back of a Sand Cruiser, using a highly sophisticated laptop.

“You’re looking good,” he said. “It was impossible to keep in touch. The Algerians want a low profile on this for obvious reasons. It’s lucky that Timbuktu is such a vast distance from the real world, a dot on the horizon of one of the greatest deserts on earth.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” she said.

“It’s just that what we are saving is so remarkable. Centuries-old copies of the Koran, manuscripts produced by master painters, precious things of every description. You don’t have to be a Muslim to recognize wonderful works of art. These savages we’re fighting, the vandals operating under al-Qaeda’s leadership, would destroy these amazing things because they don’t fit in with their own vision of Islam.”

“Well, take care.” She tried to sound jolly. “We’d hate to lose you.”

“What about you and Dillon? Roper was telling me. The car chase in London, the two al-Qaeda hit men. What was that all about?”

“They just want revenge.”

“And Paris and the Ritz?”

“It’s the beast stirring, they want payback for past hurts.”

“Well, you take care.”

“Will I see you soon?”

“Not for a while. There’s a lot to be done, and UN help is not on offer like it used to be. We’ll sort something out.”

“Of course we will.” There was little hope in her voice. “Ferguson wants a word with you. We’ll talk again.”

Holley apologized to Ferguson for the fact that he would not be available for the foreseeable future, and Ferguson assured him again that they’d be able to cope. “This work you’re doing is of prime importance. Nothing must be allowed to get in the way of that.”

Holley clicked off, and Ferguson took out a file, extracted some papers, went through them, then picked up his desk phone and called Roper.

“Are they still here, Sara, Billy, and Dillon?”

“They decided to have a swim and a steam before they left.”

“Excellent. I want to have a word before they go.”

“I’ll see to it. Anything I can do?”

“There will be. Holley’s just made it clear he’s not going to be available for some time.”

“Which is not unreasonable,” Roper said. “This Timbuktu business is pretty important.”

“Yes, but his specialized knowledge of the shipping business is what produced the Petra Project. We’ll meet in the computer room to discuss where we go from here.”

They sat and listened while Ferguson talked. “I know we’ve discussed this briefly, but let me go back to the beginning. As you know, nobody knows more about the shipping business in the Mediterranean than Daniel Holley. Malik Shipping’s fleet contains passenger vessels as well as general cargo, and carries everything from frozen food, automobiles, and farm produce, to military hardware. But there’s a second level of the shipping business that’s just as important as the first. Old rust buckets, owned by individuals, working a host of small ports from Morocco to Egypt, meeting the needs of local communities. They’re known as Petra boats, have been for years.”

“Why is that?” Sara asked.

“During the Second World War, North Africa became a pretty lively place. Concrete piers were built in scores of small ports, and a Greek firm called Petra Brothers established basic handling facilities amd accommodation.”

“Are they still around?” Dillon asked.

“Not for years. These days most of the facilities in each port are owned locally, but things are busier than ever. The Syrian situation, for instance, has produced a lively night trade in arms for the rebels.”

“Isn’t that good?” Billy said.

“Not if it’s al-Qaeda providing the weapons. Their goal is to get a foothold in the movement, with the intention of eventually taking over.”

Sara said, “And Daniel believes these Petra boats are involved?”

“Some of them definitely cross into Lebanese and Syrian waters, and there are whispers of arms being landed by night.”

“But they may be good guys,” Billy said.

“Anything is possible.” Ferguson reached for Roper’s bottle of scotch, poured a shot, and tossed it down.

“Feel free with my whiskey, why don’t you, and tell us what you intend,” Roper said.

“Daniel is convinced that al-Qaeda intends to come to power in any future Syria by penetrating the Free Syrian Army. He believes it of crucial importance to recognize that.”

“I can see how he would,” Roper said.

“He’s left me a file listing ships that might be involved. Holley took just over a hundred Petra ships with details of their voyages over the past three months and fed them into a computer. Only twelve of them visited Lebanese waters over three months, and only once or twice — but the Kantara out of Oran visited on six occasions. That’s twice a month.”

There was silence for a moment, then Roper said, “Okay, so you’ve got me interested. What happens now?”

Ferguson said, “Sean — Billy. Remember your exploits in the Khufra along the Algerian coast?”

“Jesus, who could forget?” Billy said. “I’ll remember that till my dying day.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to go back. There’s a place ninety miles west of Algiers toward Tunisia. It’s called Ras Kasar. It’s one of the regular small ports on the Petra boats’ schedule, and the Kantara is due to call in for a couple of days next Friday.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dillon asked.

“That’s what Daniel’s computer says, but I’ve chosen that particular port for a special reason. There’s a hotel there called the Paradise Club, run by a Greek named Andrew Adano. He used to work for me when I was in Army Intelligence in Cairo years ago.”

“How long is it since you’ve spoken to him?” Sara asked.

“Many years, until I found his details on Holley’s list of ports and phoned him. He’s sound as a bell, so I’ve no qualms about using him. It’s not quite the holiday season, so the hotel is quiet, but there are water sports, diving. The ships don’t get in the way. He tells me they drop anchor in the outer harbor. When the season gets going, they even have seaplanes landing.”

“It’s obviously quite taken your fancy, Charles. When are you going?” Roper asked.

“Still interested?”

“I’m just envious,” Roper said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the wheelchair, but it does tend to limit things. Have you told Adano what this is all about?”

“No, but I’m open to discussion about it. What’s your opinion?”

“How sound is he?”

“Absolutely first class. Backed me, pistol in hand, when we were attacked by three drug-crazy fedayeen in Cairo. Took a bullet in his left thigh.”

“Okay, that certainly counts for something. Don’t mention al-Qaeda, though, it just might put the fear of God in him. Tell him you suspect the Kantara might be carrying drugs.”

“That makes sense.”

“So does the fact that I’m going to need Billy with me,” Dillon said. “If the ships are moved in the outer harbor, we’ll only get to inspect the Kantara for any sign of arms by swimming underwater.”

Sara said, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much good to you there, Sean. I just haven’t had the training.”

“One wrong move in the diving game and you’re dead, it’s as simple as that.” Her disappointment showed. “I’ll need you anyway. It’s always good to have a second pilot.”

She looked at him in astonishment, and Ferguson said, “What was that you said?”

“Lacey and Parry can deliver us to Palma Airport. You have an asset in Majorca, Charles, a Greek called Yanni Christou? I had dealings with him in IRA days. His firm, Trade Winds, rents out some old Eagle floatplanes. I estimate a flight of two hundred miles should have us at Ras Kasar.”

Sara said, “But I’ve never flown a floatplane.”

“That’s what I like about you,” he said. “You didn’t say I can’t fly a floatplane. I’ll show you. Trust me. I read the reports when you got your Army Air Corps wings. It said natural pilot.”

“There you are,” Ferguson said. “Can’t argue with that. I’d better go call Adano and get this show on the road.”

Emza Khan had returned from Paris to a serious problem. In spite of the supervision of Dr. Aziz and the constant attention of a sixteen-stone male nurse named Hawkins, Yousef had worked his way through two bottles of champagne and one of vodka, then locked Hawkins in the bedroom, descended to the garage, punched the night porter, taken a Mercedes, and driven down toward Shepherd Market, bouncing off several parked cars.

A blood test showed him to be four times over the limit. Dr. Aziz had assumed medical responsibility for him, thus extracting him from a cell, but his future with the courts looked black. For the moment, he was in the Aziz Private Nursing Home a few streets from Park Lane, where Khan sat fuming in his penthouse apartment.

Needing someone to kick, he was not able to resist calling Saif at Pound Street, to take him to task over Fatima, but not to express any regret for her death.

He found Saif sad and subdued, for the Egyptian had been truly shocked to read a small item in Le Monde on the recovery of her body from the Seine, a sure sign the DGSE was setting the whole thing up as suicide and thus easily dismissed.

Khan, who had read the same piece online, said, “You should be ashamed to have used a tart for such a task, a common street poule. It makes me doubt your ability to serve, Saif, or your worthiness.”

Saif replied in an agitated voice, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself? She killed four times for the Cause. What have you ever done, you lousy bastard? She was worth ten of you.”

Khan was enraged. “Damn you, Saif, you are a walking dead man for saying that. I have the power, make no mistake.” He slammed down the receiver.

Ali Saif was not ashamed to cry, to let the tears flow as he sat at his desk. Shortly after that call, he received another. It was the Master, who said, “Are you all right?”

Saif had difficulty choking back the sobs, but finally managed. “I’m sorry, Master, a weakness, she was a good friend.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. I saw the piece in Le Monde. I was sure they’d spin it that way. The fortunes of war. She was a soldier and took a soldier’s risks, as you and I do. It is a shame that Emza Khan’s man was so quick to execute her. An animal, I’m afraid. One would have hoped Khan would have had some control over him. Indeed, Rasoul seems to have had approval for what he did.”

Ali Saif was horrified. “That is the truth? But why did he do it?”

“Rasoul is a bully and uninterested in the true path of Osama, only in the pursuit of power. He will be dealt with in due course.” What he had said about Khan he truly believed, but blaming Rasoul for Fatima’s death was a lie for which he made no apology. Everything had a purpose.

They had a rule that all telephone calls must be recorded. The Master said, “Play me the call.”

Which Saif did, Emza Khan’s harsh and ugly words echoing. There was a strange quiet when it finished.

The Master said calmly, “He is a small man, you are not. Always remember that. Your day will come. Osama blesses you.”

Next he called Khan and found him at home, seated by the sliding windows to the terrace, reading the Times. Khan was so flustered that he stood.

“Master, what can I do for you?”

“I’ve seen the results of your Petra plan. So simple in principle — yet it works. The Kantara has made six successful deliveries by night in three months. You are to be congratulated. I’ll make sure this is known. As I’ve said before, only an outstanding businessman is capable of this level of planning.”

Khan was overwhelmed and could barely speak. “Master — what can I say?”

“I could use a firsthand report, Emza. Someone to take a trip on the boat itself.”

“I wish I could do it, but I can’t spare the time. My poor efforts for the Cause consume me.”

“Indeed, we are so grateful, and so is your country’s government. How is your son? There were problems with his health, as I recall?”

The Master, of course, had already been informed of the fix Khan was in with Yousef. Khan hesitated.

“Perhaps a trip round the Mediterranean in the Kantara would put roses in his cheeks?”

“What… what an excellent idea,” Khan said. “Do you think he’d be welcome? I mean, it’s a working boat. No passengers.”

“We’ll soon change that. I admit I’ve never met Captain Rajavi, but we’ve spoken many times. After all, I am his employer. I’ll see that he calls you. The latest voyage started from Oran a few days ago, but your son could join at any of the ports.”

“He’ll be absolutely thrilled. Can I send my bodyguard with him, Rasoul?”

“Of course, but send my blessings to Yousef. I hope he has a wonderful time.”

“Allah bless you, Master.”

“He always does, my friend, every day of my life.”

David Rajavi was sitting in the captain’s chair of the wheelhouse of the Kantara and his bosun, Abu, a Somali, took the wheel. He was enjoying a cigarette and a cup of coffee when his mobile sounded.

“Where are you?” the Master asked.

“Just three miles out from a small port called Boukara, east of Algiers, where I intend to drop anchor for the night. What can I do for you?”

“My friends are delighted with what you’ve achieved. The weapons you landed have reached the right destination.”

“That’s good to know,” Rajavi told him. “But I truly believe it’s only the beginning. What can I do for you?”

“You mean, ‘What can I do for the Cause?’”

“I would have thought that by now you would know that I regard them as one and the same.”

“Excellent. I want you to call Emza. Tell him you’d be happy to have his son, Yousef, and his bodyguard, Rasoul, join you during the next couple of days.”

“Oh dear,” Rajavi said. “We’ll have to padlock the drinks locker. That won’t go down well with the kind of crew I run.”

“It could be worse,” the Master said. “You stop at plenty of ports, there’s leave.”

“I suppose so, but I don’t know how the crew is going to take a spoiled young man like Yousef, a drunk who’s only avoided prison for rape because the girls were bought off by Daddy.”

“So why not put him to work?” the Master said.

“He’d break an arm or a leg before we knew what was happening, especially if he still had access to booze.” Rajavi snorted. “You know what drunks are like.”

“Of course,” the Master said. “On the other hand, he might do us all a favor and break his neck.”

There was silence for a moment, then Rajavi said, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Let me explain. However unpleasant, Emza Khan is important to our cause because of his billions, his connection with the Iranian government, and the status this gives him in Washington and London. His two sons killed in the war with Iraq is a matter for sorrow, but also pride, as is his relationship with one of Iran’s greatest war heroes, Colonel Declan Rashid. The only fly in the ointment is Yousef himself, for rather obvious and disgusting reasons. Our cause could do without him. Do I make myself plain?”

“Very much so,” David Rajavi told him.

“Excellent,” the Master said. “Call Emza Khan and make the arrangements.”

“Consider it done,” Rajavi said and, when the Master had gone, lit a cigarette and sat there thinking about it.

Abu, the bosun, said, “Trouble, Captain?”

“It could be,” Rajavi said. “We’ve got to pick up a passenger and his minder somewhere during the voyage, and the nearest way I can describe him to you is an alcoholic schoolboy who can’t keep his pants buttoned. The problem is what to do with him.”

Abu roared with laughter. “It’s simple, Captain, throw him overboard.”

Rajavi shook his head. “You’ve no idea how much sense that makes, Abu.” He picked up his mobile and called Emza Khan.

At Highfield Court, Sara was in her bedroom busy packing when there was a knock on the door and Sadie Cohen looked in. “Daniel’s downstairs on Skype in your granddad’s study. The rabbi’s out, by the way, and not due back until late.”

Sara hurried down the stairs, went into the study, and sat in front of the screen on the large Victorian desk. Daniel, still dressed as a Turareg, stared out at her. There was some faint shooting in the background and a distant explosion. He was unshaven, dirty and sweating, eyes wild.

“Daniel, you look so tired,” she said.

“Never mind that,” he told her. “Ferguson’s just told me about you, Dillon, and Billy flying off to Ras Kasar tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” she said. “The Petra project.”

“Which was my baby.” He was thoroughly angry. “The Kantara gig, particularly. I’ve been afraid for weeks that the other side would realize we might get on to them because it’s so obvious. Damn Ferguson!”

“That’s no way to be, Daniel. Now the proof’s there that the Kantara’s been up to no good, somebody’s got to do something about it, and you’re obviously not available.”

“Don’t rub it in, and if it is al-Qaeda, the crew will be armed to the teeth. It could be a bloodbath. It’s crazy sending you into a situation like that.”

“But not crazy for Dillon and Billy, only me? That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it.” She was cold-bloodedly angry now. “Listen to me, Daniel, I’m a big girl. I don’t need somebody to hold my hand. I made my bones in Helmand Province, and I’ve got the permanent limp and the Military Cross to prove it. So I’m going, and you can’t stop me.”

He looked quite wild. “Damn you, Sara.”

“You take care, Daniel, and I’ll take care, that’s all I can say. I’m signing off now.” She clicked off the screen, turned, and found Sadie standing there looking troubled.

“This work you do, Sara, is it worth it? He loves you so, and he’s such a nice man.”

“Time for truth, Sadie. This ‘nice man’ once did five years in the Lubyanka, and carried a gun for the Provisional IRA. So did Sean Dillon, by the way, whom you adore. Do you want to know how many they’ve killed? Do you know how many dead Taliban I left at Abusan?”

Sadie stood there, a kind of horror on her face, a fist to her mouth, and Sara zipped up her military bag, put an arm around her, and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s the life I’ve chosen, Sadie. Give Granddad my love and tell him I’ll be back in a week or two,” and she went out.

Harry had driven up from his pub, the Dark Man, with Billy, and they sat in the computer room with Roper, Dillon, and Sara while Ferguson went through what was to happen.

“Since the Gulfstream has diplomatic immunity, you can take your weaponry on board. Yanni Christou will pick you up at Palma. You will have no difficulty transferring your weaponry to the floatplane. Andrew Adano will be handling the usual corrupt system at the Algerian end.”

“Diving gear?” Dillon asked.

“Taken care of. Obviously, Adano knows who you are, but I don’t see the need to alter your names on this one. You’re all mixed up in the holiday trade and looking for fresh venues. Billy is an expert in water sports, Dillon and Sara are more interested in the entertainment side. He’ll play the piano a time or two, and Sara will sing a song, just to cover your backs. I’m not suggesting you perform every night.”

“That seems to cover everything,” Dillon said.

“Take care with the cushion on the front seat on the left in the Gulfstream. If you unzip it, you’ll find blocks of Semtex and several tin boxes of pencil timers. I’ve given you a choice on the timers, various lengths for extreme circumstances. One’s a five-hour delay job. Just like the IRA in the old days.”

“That’s it, then,” Dillon said. “The rest depends on the Kantara.”

“Absolutely.” Ferguson nodded. “I need the Gulfstream back here, so Lacey and Parry will miss the joys of Majorca, which won’t please them, but the sooner you’re on your way to Ras Kasar, the better. Anything else?”

Sara said, “Daniel isn’t very pleased.”

There was a troubled silence, and Ferguson said, “When did this happen?”

“He spoke to me on Skype just before I came here.”

“He was angry with me?” Ferguson suggested.

“I’m afraid so. He doesn’t approve of me being involved.”

“That’s not surprising,” Dillon said.

“So where exactly does that leave you, Captain?” Ferguson asked.

“As far as romance is concerned?” Sara got up and reached for her bag. “A non-starter, I’m afraid. There’s certainly no room for it in our line of work. So if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, it’s me for an early night. I think I’m going to have to be on top of my game,” and she went out.

At the Aziz Private Nursing Home, the doctor was going through accounts in his office when the door burst open and Emza Khan forced his way past the protesting secretary.

“It’s all right,” Aziz said and waved her away.

“I’ve just been up to see him in his room to tell him about this.” He dropped a letter on the desk. “He’s been ordered to appear at Westminster Magistrates Court on five separate counts next Thursday. This time it could mean prison.”

“How did he take it?”

“He seemed genuinely afraid. And sober, for once.”

“He would be, we washed him out. So what do you want to do?”

“I have a commercial interest in a cargo boat. The captain’s agreed to sign him on as a crew member. I think it might be the best thing for him.”

“What does he think about that? Has he agreed to go?”

“Yes. He’s afraid of the idea of prison.”

“Then just take him. If the police inquire, I’ll say he just disappeared. You can say the same thing. They can’t prove otherwise.”

Emza Khan didn’t even say good-bye, the door banged and he was gone.